


Brawl or Hook Up?  Either Way It's a Party!

by NomadicSurvivor



Series: Michael Guerin Week Series [1]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen, POV Michael Guerin, Roswell, guerinweek19, mgweek19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 13:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20676323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NomadicSurvivor/pseuds/NomadicSurvivor
Summary: When you work so hard to control your emotions – your anger, your anxiety, your fears, your loneliness – sometimes it can be so exhausting that all you want to do is the exact opposite.  You want to let loose and go wild.  So what if that is over half the nights of the week?  Welcome to the party!





	Brawl or Hook Up?  Either Way It's a Party!

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fanfic in +20 years - most of mine have been lost to now dead angelfire fan sites of yesteryear. Something about RNM grabbed me - I was a fan of the OG, so it shouldn't be a surprise.

When you work so hard to control your emotions – your anger, your anxiety, your fears, your loneliness – sometimes it can be so exhausting that all you want to do is the exact opposite. You want to let loose and go wild. So what if that is over half the nights of the week? Welcome to the party!

The drinks go down easy enough – then it’s a question – fight or flight? Loose yourself in a touch and go for a connection, a release? If you’re really lucky, you can get both in one night – now that’s a party!

DeLuca thinks I start brawls to get out of paying my bar tab… ok she’s not wrong that it’s a perk – but it’s not the primary goal of the fight. I’ve been fighting my whole life. When I was little, I usually lost. And I promised myself I would win when I was bigger. I would be in control. I don’t know if I fit the definition of control exactly, but I win more than I loose, so I’ll take it. Sometimes fighting wasn’t even physical fisticuffs – sometimes my fights were with myself, with my emotions. Trying to not cry in front of angry foster fathers, fighting to keep a schooled face so Max and Izzy didn’t see how alone I felt. Fighting to keep my emotions in check enough that the furniture didn’t go flying around the room when some drunk, unemployed jackass would have the nerve to tell me how worthless I was. When I got big enough, when I got strong enough, I made sure I won. So yeah, I’d pick bar fights. If you’re stupid enough to say something offensive, and loud enough for people to hear you, you get what you deserve. If you’re drunk enough to take the bet that you’d be standing at the end over me, your loss, not mine. Getting into fights, suddenly I could let the walls down for just a few minutes, feel the adrenaline flowing through me, feel my tk tickling the edges of my control, that electricity it would create in my body. Sometimes a good fight is better than sex at getting those emotions out – that electricity when my powers are about to explode out of me, but I’m able to contain them – the closest I can explain it is that it’s almost like an orgasm – that ripple of tingles that moves through your whole body.

So yeah, sometimes a good ol’ fashion bar brawl is the best kind of party there is!

But sometimes you want something different. You want to feel touch. You want to feel like you’re part of the world, not warring with it. When you grow up not feeling wanted, not belonging anywhere, being told how little you matter, touch is something there is very limited amounts of. When you grow up a toy to be used by adults around you, you learn how to act, what to do, how to touch. It also means though, that you see yourself as something for people to use. And when you want to use them to feel a connection to the world for just a moment, well at least you’re using each other, right? And it can make for a different kind of party.

More often than not it is with women – the Wild Pony isn’t exactly where you find the most inclusive crowd, so more often than not, semi-drunk women looking for a good time are what you find. And once you have a reputation, there is no shortage of women looking for a good time with no strings attached.

I know, I know – you’re going to tell me I’m worth more than that. That my reputation doesn’t matter. I’ll just laugh, raise a glass, and ask which reputation are we talking about? The bar brawler who won’t back down from a fight? The white trash orphan freak that nobody wanted who lives in poverty in a trailer that may as well be the truck he lived in for years? The town slut who will sleep with anyone and everyone and won’t get offended when you don’t acknowledge knowing the next day on the sidewalk? The kid genius who could have made something of himself but just became another foster care statistic that’s continuing the cycle?

I think the part of hooking up that most of my “dates” are surprised by is how tactile I am – but it’s also why they like it so much. Anyone can slam, bam, thank you ma’am their way through a drunken one-night stand. But as I said, for me, it’s about connecting – feeling like I do exist in this world. It’s the hugs, the running of hands on as much of each other’s bodies as possible – almost worshipping the other person. They think I am making them feel special, like they are the only one. I’m just trying to get as much skin-on-skin as possible – its like a fix for a junkie, and I can tell you about junkies jonesing for a fix! I want the touch, the feel, the smell of another body – one that (even if for the next hour or so) wants me there, that thinks I’m special, I’m worth being with. I know its as much bullshit as they do, but that’s ok – we exist in the lie together. This is where a fun, different kind of electricity-through-your-body party exists. Hands feeling skin, running through hair, softly caressing breasts, nipples, curves of hips. Other times those hands grabbing each other’s asses, rolling balls in palms, trailing through chest hair, down the torso, then lightly fingering down a stiff cock with a pinch at the end to get that gasp to escape kiss-swollen lips. If you’re really lucky, this party continues after the fireworks (assuming you didn’t fake it – you know you never need the other to fake it, they always leave satisfied) and you get a few selfish moments of being held, fingers lightly running up and down your back. As a kid you would see mothers rubbing children’s backs and always wondered what that felt like. You’re pretty sure it wasn’t like these kinds of back rubs, but you take what you can get. Then the party is over, and they leave. Your mask comes back down – the indifference, the wall – so no one knows the true emotions and can hurt you with them.

The parties that suck are the ones that end with being tossed in the drunk tank. When the brawl doesn’t end with that victorious moment of you winning and walking away, the cool night air on your searing skin, letting it cool the sting where the moron who decided to fight you got a good shot in. If you get interrupted and separated, those parties are the worst. You get locked in a cage, but the adrenaline, the electricity, it’s still flowing through you, ready to explode out of every pore. Instead, you have to pace a too-small area to get any release. Or you have to sit on the hard bench and breathe through it (that rarely works by the way). And you also get the luxury of knowing that your egotistic-altruistic pseudo-brother will eventually show up, take great pleasure in lecturing you on how much of a waste you’re being, how stupid you’re behaving. You can see him almost getting off on knowing how much better than you he is. What you bite your tongue about, what you never say, is just how much he sounds like all those foster parents you were forced to grow up listening to. How much you don’t need to hear what Maxamillian has to say those things because you have so many different voices of different foster parents and case workers saying all those same things to you in your head all the time. How you don’t need a party-pooper like Max to remind you why you chose to brawl over sex in the first place.

Because that’s what your brawl or hook-up parties are really all about. Whether the fight lasts a minute or ten. Whether you’re hook-up is an hour or half the night. For that time, the noise in your head goes away. The yelling, the insults, the anger, the fear, the anxiety, the loneliness, the equations, the ideas, the stars, the lights, the self-doubt, the knowing how smart you are yet threw it all away, the self-hatred in knowing you are in fact a statistic of another one who fell through the cracks and lost to the system. All of everything that runs 24/7 through your brain at full volume and brightness – it goes away. And the only thing in your head at that moment is either the fight or the other body, and all the sensations with those activities. 

And that is the best kind of party. Welcome to it. Hold my beer.


End file.
